Sunday, February 27, 2011

after the past few days of sylvia's incisive and insightful words i feel a compulsion to return to the soft comfy down bedspread that e.e. cummings threw across the bed of my emerging self at the age of seventeen when i first received the revelation that it was very alright to crack the hardened spine of the book of poetry.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

my little part of the world was washed with wave after wave of warm air that

drifted up from the southern united states.

travelling in its great arms were huge gift-boxes of colours and smells and sounds and a softness that i can't really put into words although if i said it was like walking through clouds of talcum powder

would you understand?

it lasted two days and in that time, each of the boxes was ceremoniously opened and the contents released to adoring children and adults alike who smiled even as the misty rains blew in and especially when the clouds scudded past and left a clear blue sky with mister sun looking shy and bashful as he looked at what he'd done.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

her an older woman, and him just moving into what his mom called "the messier side of adulthood".

all the same, they'd meet once a week and talk and drink tea and sometimes when she made scones they'd spoon some of her homemade strawberry jam onto them.

"the sweetest thing this side of summer" she'd say

as she popped the lid off an earthenware jar still cool from the cellar.

they'd met quite by chance as he'd been sweeping the floors at his late afternoon job at harper's five and dime. she'd been looking for something small and pretty to place on her kitchen window ledge.

see, a while back she'd been dusting and had knocked the small china cat that her brother had given her clean off the ledge. she'd watched helplessly as it bounced off the counter and then fell back down behind the stove. she knew from the sound it made when it hit the tile that there would be no need

to even think about gluing it all back together.

looking up and down the aisles of harper's it had been hard to see anything that would fit the bill.

the cobwebby shelves were filled with all sorts of knick knacks and distractions and she was rounding a corner when didn't she bump into the back of joey who was equally focussed on getting some of

the kansas dust up off the floor.

when she'd regained her composure and joey had mumbled his excuse me's she had moved further down the aisle, all the while watching him as he worked. then she'd said, "son, the way you sweep that floor looks to me more like someone painting a masterpiece" and he'd been so taken by her words that he plain forgot what he was doing and putting his brush up against the wall began a conversation

that carried through to this very day.

this early february day.

"ada what is it about birds that makes them need to sing so much?"

ada liked to settle back into her chair when he asked her questions that she needed to think about,

just so she'd get it right enough that he didn't go down a path that he might not come back from.

joey knew that when she settled back like that, this was a time for him to be quiet,

to let the sounds and the smells

of the house fill him up with their stories.

"joey i reckon they have so much sunshine and so many stories flying around all that sunshine that they try and tell some of 'em but it comes out all messy and more like songs than stories 'cause they're telling them fast like if you know what i mean."

"so if i slowed up the bird's songs they'd be more like words?"

"well, i sense that it's best to leave them alone", she replied. "soon as you start playing with that sort of thing you get yourself into a mess of bother", and she chuckled in that bubbling brown sugar voice of hers all sweet and soft and settled even deeper into her chair.

he'd sit on the floor for a while listening to her breathing in and out.

after a time, looking outside he'd see the mid winter light was almost all gone for the day and he'd get up and pull on his boots and coat and quiet as ever, walk down the creaky floorboard hall and pull the front door to with the gentlest tug to make sure the lock caught.

he liked to stop on the front steps and turn around as if she were standing there and he'd say

"thanks for the scones and jam and tea ada. i'll be back next week".

and he fancied he heard her reply, soft as a may rain "i'll be lookin' for ya".

"i have also called it love-force or soul-force. in the application of satyagraha, i discovered in the earliest stages that pursuit of truth did not admit of violence being inflicted on one’s opponent but that he must be weaned from error by patience and compassion. for what appears to be truth to the one may appear to be error to the other. and patience means self-suffering. so the doctrine came to mean vindication of truth, not by infliction of suffering on the opponent, but on oneself."